Professional
by Arhie
Summary: Someone was asking around about the late Cecil Jarvis. He didn't get where he was by leaving loose ends. Prequel to Pompey's "One of Their Own."
1. Thorough

Chapter 1: Thorough

AN: This story is a prequel to Pompey's "One of Their Own," and can be read before or after that masterpiece. There will be three chapters. Many thanks to Pompey for sharing her incredible work and for the permission to publish this prequel.

This first chapter contains the only overt violence in the story. If violence makes you uncomfortable, skip to chapter 2 for a K+ story.

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or his universe. This story is written with love for the characters, and no copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

><p>By the time the news reached him, it was late afternoon and the March sunlight was already fading into a dusky chill evening. Someone - medium height, brown hair, moustache, introduces himself as a doctor, apparently not a peeler, that man walking out the door just now, it took him a few stops to track the blighter - was asking around about the late Cecil Jarvis. He didn't get where he was by leaving loose ends. He was on the doctor's tail, waiting for the right spot to take care of the business. A street crowded with jostling hansom cabs but with nearly empty sidewalks was just the ticket. He caught up with the doctor in time to trip into him, pushing the interfering toff a few stumbling steps down an alley. It was simple, really, and it worked every time: keep them too dazed and out of breath to raise a fuss, take care of it quickly, and leave before someone else accidentally walked in and had to be taken care of the same way.<p>

The doctor, then, hadn't gotten his balance back before he got a fist to the side of the head, followed by quick blows to the belly. When the man bent over his hurt belly, a twist of his arm behind him pushed him double and a hand on his neck kept him down. The shoulder must have been hurt earlier. It didn't take that much of a twist to bend him further and hold the position long enough to slam a knee into the man's chest before shoving him headlong into the wall and pushing him to the ground. He let go of the doctor's arm to get in a good kick to the ribs, then kicked his face hard enough to crack his skull against the brick. He prided himself on getting a good head knock every two or three blows. Being thorough like that kept him out of trouble. He took care of little problems before they became big problems, or the peelers took interest.

He landed a few more kicks on the man's chest and stomach before he realized that the doctor wasn't shielding himself. Unconscious or dead, he wouldn't be a problem anymore. A stomp to the hand limp on the pavement got no response, confirming his evaluation. The doctor'd be dead before he was found, probably tomorrow morning. No sloppiness, no fuss. This was why he didn't get caught. He was professional.


	2. Inspector Bradstreet

AN: This fic was written as I tried to figure out two conundrums from Pompey's "One of Their Own." First, what kind of injuries would 1890s surgeons be able to fix so as to regain full function on recovery, but would be life-threatening at the time? Second, how would someone get the jump on Watson? These are my best guesses. Enjoy!

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or his universe. This story is written with love for the characters, and no copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

><p>Chapter 2: Inspector Bradstreet<p>

It had not been a good day. Inspector Bradstreet had spent all morning looking for a misplaced case file that had probably been "borrowed" by Sherlock Holmes. Anyway, he never found it. He spent the afternoon behind on everything thanks to his wasted morning and the continued absence of the file. Then, right before quitting time, Gregson came back from a fruitless interview and vented his spleen on his hapless colleague. Bradstreet took the long way home to get his head on straight. This was one aspect of work he insisted on leaving at the Yard. His wife, saint that she was, put up with enough from this job without him coming home angry.

His pace finally slowed, a sure sign that he'd walked out his frustrations, and he turned off to the shortest way home, relaxing in newfound peace in the soft dusk light, silently appreciating the spring air not yet frigid this early in the evening and the tangle of humanity and byways that made up his London.

He glanced down an alley, his languidly roaming gaze examining an odd shape in the shadows. A moment's examination revealed a shoe in the heap against the battered brickwork, which extended to the now-apparent form of a man, likely a gentleman by the neatly trimmed moustache, of limited means by the state of the shoes, crumpled against the wall. The inspector sighed – yet another drunk collapsing in an alley, probably on his way home from one of the several pubs on the street. His exasperation turned to a grin as he noted his deduction. Perhaps he was picking up Mr. Holmes' methods. He'd have to tell Hopkins. Pleased by his reasonings, he paused for a closer look. Perhaps he could decipher more about this man. He could wake him after, just to check his theories.

The first thing he noticed on entering the alley was that the strangely-shaped lump at the man's side was a crushed and bloody hand. Bradstreet leapt forward, pulling his police whistle from his pocket and kneeling by the man's side, leaning down to check for breathing. That was when he properly saw the man's face and found himself blowing on his whistle with all his breath.

A few precious seconds passed before he could calm down enough to assure himself of the shallow, pained breaths that meant there was still a chance. The pulse was weak but steady. A hand to the side got a pause in breathing that nearly stopped the inspector's own heart and promised broken ribs under the tattered cloth and skin. Finally, after moments that felt like eternity or no time at all, two constables careened into the alley, nearly running him over him their effort to respond to his summons.

The arrival of his subordinate grounded him. He knew how to handle these situations. He was a professional. He checked for serious wounds and found scrapes, oozing cuts, and a spreading purple bruise on the doctor's exposed face. The legs and arms were alright except for the right hand. Finding nothing he could help, Inspector Bradstreet summoned a cab to rush the limp form to the hospital, sending one of the constables along. He and the second constable reviewed the scene, evaluating it for clews to the crime. He may not have been at his best. The only thought that could break through the buzzing concern overtaking his brains as he mechanically examined the alley and nearby street was how on earth he was going to tell Holmes.


	3. Sherlock Holmes

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or his universe. This story is written with love for the characters, and no copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

><p>Chapter 3: Sherlock Holmes<p>

It had been a very good day. Scotland Yard had been uncharacteristically helpful: a review of their case file that morning had led him to several promising leads. Sherlock Homes allowed himself a satisfied smirk as he peeled off his prosthetic nose and the sooty rags that had allowed him to so effectively conceal himself as he slumped brazenly through the London underworld, questioning and investigating. He nearly had him. He'd sent Watson to follow the last lead. As soon as the doctor returned with those final pieces, the case would be complete.

Thin fingers affixed a clean collar around his freshly-scrubbed neck as the pause of a cab's rumble announced an arrival at 221 Baker Street. Holmes reclined in his chair by the fire, briefly debating the presentation of the case facts that would most effectively garner that satisfactory look of wonder on Watson's good-natured features, the achievement of which had somehow become second only to solving the case itself as the most rewarding application of his talents.

The rapid, heavy steps on the seventeen stairs set his pleasant musings on disappointed hold. Lestrade, not Watson, then – but by the hesitation at the landing, not here to rant about the pilfered case file currently teetering atop his desk. When annoyed, the bastion of mediocrity tended to storm into the flat, unannounced and unknocking. This time, however, there had been a pause that had indubitably hosted small talk with Mrs. Hudson before an unusually erratic pace preceded the current pause. Holmes delayed his dramatic exposé with a twitch of irritation, grabbing a nearby newspaper and arranging himself so that the inspector would know that Holmes had not been waiting for _him_. He only wished that he had the results of Watson's research. He could have practised his delivery.

His annoyance was somewhat quelled, however, by the odd expression contorting Lestrade's rattish features. Holmes quickly assessed the man. The freshly shined right cuff and ink-marked fingers indicated that the inspector had spent the day at paperwork, but the slowly wilting collar and pattern of shoe scuffs suggested recent running, the final stretch of which had been outside and likely near the Yard. If it were a new development on the case, surely he would not have hesitated at the door. He would not be hesitating now. At Lestrade's glance to Watson's accustomed chair, Holmes broke the brief silence.

"The doctor is out, Inspector." Watson would likely have invited the imbecile to stay for supper, or at least to wait for the doctors' imminent arrival. Holmes would do no such thing.

Lestrade nearly cringed, visibly catching himself and adopting the neutral, allegedly professional expression which the inept fools at the Yard no doubt practiced in their mirrors at night. The next words formed a script that Holmes had heard a hundred times, if never directed at him.

"Mr. Holmes, I am here to inform you that Dr. Watson has been injured. He was attacked. He is now at Charing Cross hospital and is being treated."

Holmes found himself on his feet and across the room with no memory of movement. A voice that sounded like his demanded details as the inspector suggested that he resume his seat. The world snapped into clarity. There was a crime. This was his element. Now was no time for emotion. He needed facts.

Every word from the inspector's mouth was noted, marked "critical and urgent," and filed carefully in his brain. The location of the apparent attack confirmed his second theory of the crime. Inspector Bradstreet had stumbled upon Watson by chance, the resulting rapidity of treatment likely the only reason the doctor still breathed. Bradstreet had combed the scene – probably poorly, obscuring evidence in his clumsy wake – then followed the doctor to the hospital. Lestrade, who had been notified by a frantic constable bursting into Scotland Yard, met him there.

Bradstreet was now working on the case. Lestrade, clearly, had been elected to apprise Holmes of the situation. Watson was still in surgery. He would not be allowed to see Watson for some time. The surgeons expected the procedure to be quite lengthy. At present, they believed Watson to have three broken ribs, a partially collapsed lung, a liver laceration, a severe concussion, a fractured cheekbone, and five broken bones in his right hand. The surgeons estimated that Watson had been beaten less than three hours ago, and were making no promises for the doctor's survival.

Holmes seized his walking stick, slapping the case file into the inspector's stunned hands before charging out the door, barely stopping for coat and hat. Flinging himself into a passing hansom cab, Holmes reflected that he had been wise to leave Watson's revolver in the flat. He would allow the Scotland Yard bumblers to make the arrest. His business was only the work. When his Boswell recovered – and he would recover – it would be better if Holmes could tell the story without revealing action s that would disappoint the man. It might impede Watson's convalescence.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story. Like most authors here, I am always trying to improve. I would much appreciate any suggestions or critiques, either in a review or a PM. Please let me know what you think.<p>

If you haven't yet, I urge you to read the original work that inspired this prequel, Pompey's "One of Their Own." It's in my Favorites.

I did some research to pick a hospital where Dr. Watson would have been sent. Since I know now, I thought I'd share. According to Wikipedia, Charing Cross hospital was founded in 1818 and has had that name since 1827. It was, and is, an acute care general hospital. While it is now located in Fulham, at the turn of the century it was still located on Charing Cross Road, about two miles southeast of Baker Street and half a mile from New Scotland Yard's offices on the Victoria Embankment, where the force was located from 1890-1967. Distances were calculated with Google Maps.


End file.
